Chapter 77: The Roaring Twenties
In October, George arrived at the Peninsula via Portkey.
Accompanied by the thirty-three prepared members, Ryan, and the guards, he traveled by cruise ship, starting from Syria, passing through the Suez Canal, bypassing what would later be Yemen, and finally disembarking at the mouth of the Arabian River. It's worth noting that when Britain granted the Peninsula, it also included the land east of the Suez Canal within the Arabian Peninsula.
During the journey, George discussed the development of the entire Peninsula with these council members. Long meetings, quiet talks under the deck, and casual meals turned into policy planning sessions.
George told the council members, "First, select a location for the administrative center and establish an administrative building. Then, all departments must be fully equipped."
"There must also be our army and base. It's best to establish military bases in both the northern and southern sections. The base must have a seaport and a super-long runway for aircraft. Two small cities can even be built around these two bases. After all, these bases include land, sea, and air, so their area won't be small. Therefore, the supporting equipment and personnel must also keep up."
"The Peninsula's economy will focus on developing oil energy, gambling, and tourism, and financial services."
"Financial services," George explained, "means no foreign exchange restrictions and no direct taxes." He didn't go into detail, but what he described resembled the future model of places like the Caymans.
Although the council members didn't understand everything George was talking about, they all diligently pulled out paper and pens, carefully recording every word.
"Arrange for the construction of thermal power plants around the city. They should be plants that burn natural gas or oil," George continued.
"The transportation system of the entire Peninsula must be well-planned. In addition to sea transport, land transportation, like trains, must be established."
"And for lower levels—government, economy, culture, law, and so on—all of these must be unified. You're all skilled in this area. I'll leave that part to you."
Just as George finished speaking, one of the council members raised his hand and asked respectfully, "Your Excellency, Governor, although we don't fully understand some of what you just said, we do generally grasp the meaning. However, some of your requirements may be impossible for us to fulfill. Please forgive us."
George didn't take offense. "Oh? Tell me what you think you can't accomplish."
The man hesitated, glanced at a few of the others for reassurance, and finally spoke. "Your Excellency… first, establishing military bases, transportation systems, cities—according to your requirements, all of that would require an enormous amount of money. We… don't have those resources."
"Is there anything else?" George's voice was calm. "It's fine, speak freely."
The man cleared his throat again. "You also mentioned setting up oil energy companies and building power plants that rely on oil or natural gas. While some natural gas has been discovered throughout the Peninsula, constructing something that large in scale may not be feasible for us."
George chuckled lightly. "Good, that's reasonable. I'll solve all the problems you mentioned here. For now, you don't need to worry about those parts. As for urban construction, transportation planning, and population migration—those are your responsibility. For everything else, I'll have professionals brought in."
The council nodded—relieved, some even grateful. At least now the path forward was clearer.
Time passed quickly.
On November 1st, in the holy city of Jerusalem, the thirty-three council members, leading their families, took turns swearing allegiance to George under the Fidelius Charm. One after another, solemn and quiet, they made their vow. George officially ascended to the Governor's throne.
The ceremony wasn't lavish. No crowds, no foreign press—just firelight flickering on stone, solemn silence, and words that would bind these men for life.
That night, after the banquet, George returned to his room alone.
It had been half a year since the first batch of vegetables was planted in the Chaos Space. They had already matured. Comparing them to ordinary crops, George found that the growth time hadn't changed, but the taste had clearly improved. And through controlled tests, animals fed with the space-grown vegetables were visibly healthier. Rabbits showed better fur condition, energy levels, and immune response. George suspected it was linked to the water quality inside the Space.
The internal world itself had stopped expanding automatically. Back when the chaos pearl functioned only as storage, it would slowly absorb external energy and grow in volume. That was no longer the case.
George had even attempted to use the Undetectable Extension Charm to force space expansion, but it had no effect. The spell just vanished the moment it was cast—like tossing a rock into nothing.
He also noticed another change—the passive energy absorption had stopped. Energy inside his body no longer increased on its own. That didn't bother him too much; it just meant he had to manually perform internal circulation every morning for about an hour.
After half a year of routine practice, a visible amount of chaotic-colored energy had formed, floating gently at the top of the Chaos Space like a cloudy aurora.
With a thought, George willed it to disperse.
The energy spread across the entire space in an instant. In his perception, something shifted. He could feel it—growth. When measured, the radius of the space had expanded outward by about half a meter. And when George tested teleportation in the real world, he found the range had increased by the same amount.
One meter of expansion per year. That's what it came down to.
George sighed, thinking, 'If I had used that same amount of energy to extract an item from the Three Thousand Worlds, maybe I'd have gotten something better. A more impactful return. '
At this rate, fully restoring the Chaos Pearl—or evolving it further—would be slow beyond belief. He recalled the spike in reaction when the Tesseract had merged with the Pearl. Maybe that was the key.
Time passed again.
It was now 1929.
George remained busy with capital affairs, especially in this decade, one of rapid change, soaring ambition, and dangerous optimism.
In America, two Presidents—Harding and Coolidge—had reshaped the public atmosphere. They replaced the boldness of the war years with restraint. Big government was out. Silent leadership, tax cuts, and budget control were in.
To George, their actions felt like a modern take on ruling through inaction. These men believed business, not government, would move the world forward.
Harding, especially, called upon American entrepreneurs to rise again—to become the visionaries who had once forged railways, steel empires, and flying machines from raw ambition. He wanted less regulation, not more.
From 1921 to 1929, U.S. GDP grew at a staggering 5% annual rate—unheard of in developed nations. And as George watched, three core themes took shape.
The first: rapid productivity growth.
Especially in the first half of the decade, businesses took full advantage of postwar industrial breakthroughs. There was no inflation. Labor unions were quiet. And companies poured their gains into profits. By the end of the decade, American manufacturing accounted for 42% of global production, up from 36% in 1914.
The second: business modernization.
Cities were rising. The service sector was exploding. More Americans now work in offices and stores than on farms. New professions emerged—HR managers, school administrators, engineers—and the number of teachers soared. For the first time, urban Americans outnumbered rural ones.
The third: mass adoption of American inventions.
Electricity. Cars. Planes. Radio. Joint-stock companies. All inventions born in the Gilded Age, now fully absorbed into daily life. Middle-class families bought what used to be luxuries. Suburbs stretched beyond old city limits. Houses are connected to power grids and clean water systems.
For the public, it was a dream decade. Wages rose. Products got cheaper. Markets felt alive.
The U.S. formed a national economy in the truest sense—unified, prosperous, and confident.
But George saw what most didn't.
Debt levels had exploded. Measured in modern terms, household debt jumped from $4,200 in 1919 to over $21,000 by 1929. Real estate was the biggest slice. Americans were buying homes on credit—homes they couldn't truly afford.
And then there was policy.
Populist ideology was on the rise. Immigration was being restricted. Without new workers flowing in, the U.S. could no longer rely on the cheap labor it once had. Costs were rising in the background.
George observed it all quietly.
He understood creative destruction—he'd benefited from it. But when the cycle tilted too far toward risk, and no one pulled the brakes, the fall would be just as dramatic.
By 1929, one in ten American households was actively investing in stocks.
A society built on growth had started betting on infinite expansion.
George didn't say anything. He just kept building, diversifying, and waiting.
Because he knew.
The Roaring Twenties were really loud, fast, and euphoric.
But after the roar always comes the silence.
___________________________________________________________________________
The Carriage of Salt
Story 3 of 4 – Golden Ship Anthology
~2,170 words
POV: Jamal Etemadi, former merchant clerk, now logistics consultant
Setting: Golden Ship, Persian Gulf + earlier ports
Salt was the first thing Jamal ever traded.
Before he learned the price of tin. Before he could read a balance sheet or calculate duty rates. Before his cousin taught him how to speak English with the polite patience of someone trying to escape Ahvaz. Before he could sign his name with the curve of a merchant's hand.
Salt was what his grandfather had traded. Salt from the inland mines, packed in cloth and carried by donkey along dried-up riverbeds. No more valuable than dust to outsiders — but priceless to the right kitchen, the right tongue, the right tradition.
You could learn a lot about a man by how he spoke about salt.
Jamal wasn't a rich man, not in the way Golden Ship passengers usually were.
But he was clever.
And he understood how to spot new trade before it was formalized. That's why he'd come aboard — as a shipping liaison, technically. An "independent procurement coordinator" hired by a textile company in Bandar Abbas, who didn't know what the title meant and didn't care, as long as Jamal brought back contracts.
He didn't plan to stay long.
But by the time the Golden Ship left Oman, he'd decided to ride it through at least three more ports. By the time it reached Italy, he was onboard for good.
The ship had changed him.
Not with magic. Not with money. Just… by offering space.
Room to think. Room to notice. Room to be something other than busy.
Every deck was like a city he'd never visited. Some nights, he walked for hours through narrow lantern-lit halls where the air smelled like saffron and cedarwood. Through lounges with Ottoman rugs and heavy velvet curtains. Through sunlit walkways where old men played chess in silence.
He saw people from every corner of the world — talking, singing, cooking. Sharing maps. Sharing stories. Sharing time.
For the first time in twenty years, Jamal wasn't being useful to anyone.
And no one demanded it of him.
He still worked, of course. That was who he was.
He kept a small desk in the freight office and helped staff arrange minor trades between ports — antique rugs for wine, honey for old rifles, sandalwood boxes for coins. Nothing large. Nothing formal. Just grease the gears.
But his real work started on the night of the salt.
It had been raining in Muscat — a soft, slanted mist that made everything smell green.
Jamal had stepped off for a routine cargo check and noticed a merchant unpacking something near the edge of the dock. A crate of salt, but not normal salt. He could tell from the way it sparkled. Not like powder. Not like dust. It shimmered faintly even in shadow.
"Where is this from?" Jamal had asked in Farsi.
"Al-Badīyah," the man replied, naming an old mountain town near the Emirates border.
Jamal touched a pinch of it to his tongue. It tingled.
He bought the entire crate on impulse.
Later, loading it personally into the Golden Ship's hold, one of the dock hands — a young sailor from Goa — asked why a man like him was hauling cargo himself.
Jamal said, "This batch needs me."
He didn't know why he'd said it.
Only that it was true.
He kept the crate in a side compartment of the logistics hold. Opened it once a day. Checked it like someone might check a child's breathing at night.
Every time, the salt looked clearer than before. Crystals forming neat rows. The shimmer was growing, not brighter, but deeper. Like light through water.
He shaved off a few grams and gave them to the kitchen.
The chef used them in a fish stew that night.
The stew sold out in minutes. Half the diners asked what was different. The chef said nothing. But he looked at Jamal with something between confusion and gratitude.
Word spread.
Jamal began trading samples. One gram for a book of poems. Five for a handmade shawl. A fistful for a bottle of red wine from Sicily.
He didn't advertise. Didn't boast. He didn't need to.
Because the people who wanted it… felt it.
The way it made food sing.
The way it seemed to leave the tongue cleaner than before.
The way it never clumped in the bowl, even on the most humid days.
It wasn't magic.
But it was something.
He took notes. He ran tests.
He placed a lump of the salt next to ordinary sea salt and left them in identical cups of water for three days.
By day two, the Muscat salt had dissolved cleanly.
The sea salt had left residue.
He placed a single grain on a raw fish fillet.
The smell changed — subtly — becoming almost sweet.
He didn't tell anyone that part.
The girl — the one who sketched the stars—had passed him in the corridor one night.
She had a box of charcoal under her arm and ink smudged across her cheek. She didn't say anything, but she nodded. He nodded back.
The quiet man with the watch passed him another day, hunched, focused, wrapped in thought. They didn't speak either. Just two men moving around each other like pieces on a board.
He began recognizing more faces. Seeing the same ones over and over. Staff, too — Raoul the bartender, Tomas the steward, even the old violinist who played only after midnight.
The ship felt less like a vessel and more like a neighborhood.
One that drifted.
One where time worked differently.
Jamal started writing letters.
To merchants he hadn't spoken to in years.
To his cousins, he once owed favors to.
To the son of an old friend in Tehran who was looking for a career.
He told them nothing about the salt.
Only that the future was changing, and they should be ready.
By the time they reached Marseille, Jamal had signed his first three contracts — small trades, quiet favors, harmless logistics.
But they were real.
And they were his.
That night, back at Bar D'Or, the music was louder than usual.
A man in a suit — Howard, he remembered — stood near the bar arguing with someone about aircraft designs and equity shares.
Jamal sat in his corner, folding one of his letters.
He saw the girl in the far booth, sketching again.
He saw the watchmaker lean back, eyes half-closed, listening to the violin.
None of them said a word.
But they all looked like they belonged.
Jamal never found out what the salt was — not completely.
He never sold it in bulk. Never offered it to the Orwell group. Never patented it or profited beyond a few local trades.
He just… let it move.
Like tidewater. Like gossip. Like something ancient returning home.
The crate emptied over time.
He didn't mind.
He had the taste of it now.
And the world was full of salt yet to be found.
End of Story 3
To be continued in: The Stark Gamble
(Story 4 of 4 – Final)